When Discussing Your Cervical Mucous Quality With Total Strangers Seems Perfectly Normal ...

THAT’S when you know you’re an infertility patient, right?

Where to begin, where to begin.

I think the journey for me and Blaine into the land of TTC (trying to conceive, for you folks who aren’t into the fertility lingo) is probably pretty similar to most other couples going through fertility treatments. Of course, ours went on for six years, with four different doctors, so if I tried to share every facet, or follow a completely detailed timeline, we’d probably be here a while. And while all of you have been kind enough to indicate an interest, I seriously doubt you want to hear about every single ultrasound or temper tantrum or needle stick or negative pregnancy test. So I’ll try to keep it brief, which you know for me, means I’ll be typing until 2am.

When Blaine and I got married, we had very clear expectations for our future. The plan was for us to be married for a few years before starting our family, while he began his career in the Air Force. Get the student loans paid off before diving into the costs of diapers, and sow whatever wild oats needed sowing. We knew we didn't want kids right away, but they were without a doubt, part of the plan for the future.

Although I did go back to college during those years, it was never my goal to establish myself in any kind of professional capacity, since we knew all along that I’d stay home with our kids. Which, by the way, we would have four, spaced two years apart. First there would be a boy who we would name Matthew Dallas, then two years later a girl we would name Brayden Christine. We didn’t have names picked for the next two yet, although we tossed around some possibilities. And we didn’t care about the order, but we planned to have one more of each sex. Again, two years apart. We already had the golden retriever and SUV to complete the picture. That was our plan; it was well-thought out, and we were sticking to it. It’s so good to have plans, don’t you think? {AKA, were we naïve morons, or what?}

We had been married four years when we decided we were ready. I finished my last packet of birth control pills, winked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and sat back, ready to begin gestating as soon as we had sex. Once. Because of course, that was all it would take and I would be as knocked up as they come.

We tried for three months and nothing worked. What the heck? Blaine and I were the kind of people who got things done …. Who set a goal and accomplished it, so this kind of delay was unacceptable to us. Now, this was back before the internet became a household item, but I had gone to the library and done my research. I knew that on average, most couples conceived within six to eight months, and most doctors wouldn’t consider you “infertile” until you had been trying to conceive, unsuccessfully, for a year.

Well, excuse my French, but fuck that shit.

I wasn’t waiting a year to get pregnant! A YEAR???? Are you insane??? We had a master plan, people, and our master plan included me having our first baby at the age of 25, so if you think I was waiting a year to get pregnant, you are definitely smoking some crack.

So I did what any goal-oriented person would do. I went to the doctor and lied.

We lived on an Air Force Base in North Dakota, so I went to the Women’s Health Department of the base hospital and told them I had been trying for a year, with no luck. The first thing they wanted to do was a semen analysis on Blaine. Any doctor who knows anything, does this first. And I’m sure all of you know a man, or have heard of a man, or know someone who knows a man, who completely balked at this step. Let’s be honest, going to a medical clinic to spank the monkey isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time. {Actually, I worked at a doctor’s office for several years, and for this one really creepy guy, it was. But that’s another story for another time.}

Blaine, give the guy his due, was a good sport about it. Not thrilled, by any means, but willing to do whatever he needed to get this situation taken care of. His extremely impatient wife had been waiting three months … three MONTHS, damnit … to get pregnant. If making a deposit in the Bank O’ Love would help matters, he would swallow his pride and do it.

Naturally, he was fine.

So, I was put on a front line fertility drug called Clomid. Dutifully kept a temperature chart, and each month, I took the pills, faithfully had sex on the days I was supposed to, sat around with baby-lust in my eyes, only to start my period each and every time. Again, what the heck? That really stunk. I mean, ok, fine, my pride could take the hit of this not working the first time, or even working as quickly as I wanted it to. But darn it, I was on drugs now, and something should be happening! If we didn’t hurry up, we were going to miss our goal of the first baby by age 25!

Then, we moved.

We didn’t live on base the next place we lived, so I had to find a civilian doctor, and I made sure to find one who had experience in infertility. At this point we had been trying for that cursed year, and I meant business. It was time to get pregnant, NOW. No more joking around. This doctor explained the first thing he would want to do was a semen analysis ….. “uh, yeah, I already did that… can’t I just get you a copy of the report?” was Blaine’s reply. But no, apparently all doctors like to have their own labs do the tests, just to be sure.

After Blaine was confirmed normal, once again, the attention turned to me. This time, though, the doctor wouldn’t put me on fertility drugs until he had done a few tests …. So I had the basic tests done; bloodwork to check my hormone levels, endometrial biopsy, and hysterosalpingogram -- to make sure my uterine lining was ok (it was) and that my tubes weren’t blocked (they weren’t). At that point, he agreed the Clomid should do the trick, and even bumped me up to a higher dosage. And, started monitoring me via bloodwork and ultrasound to make sure my FSH and TSH levels were OK, and that I was producing follicles. Again, with the sex on the right days. Spontaneity was sure starting to take a hit. Always, always, with the sex on the right days.

Including, I might add, Thanksgiving Day of that year, when Blaine's parents, my parents, my sister and her boyfriend, and my grandpa, of all people, were visiting for the weekend. Do you know how difficult it is to find a place to have sex, in a small duplex, with seven other adults sleeping at your house and you are the hosts? Let’s just say any starry-eyed notions I had previously, about *this time* being *the time* and *so special* had long since been in the toilet. I’m not positive, but I think that might have been the first time my exact words were “just get it over with, for God’s sake, and don’t take too long or someone might catch us”.

See? See how infertility is so good for a marriage???

So, months of testing, and six more months of an increased Clomid dose, complete with the hot flashes and mood swings that drug gives me, to no avail, and then???

We moved again. {How I do love the military life!}

.........to be continued .... because its after midnight, for goodness sake, and I'm taking six kids to lunch and a movie tomorrow and I need my sleep and my stamina!